


Pride Goeth

by NoirRosaleen



Series: Victorianisms On Tins [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Embarrassment, F/M, Fluff, Nobody respects Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirRosaleen/pseuds/NoirRosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had not expected THIS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride Goeth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Haven't written in awhile, so thought I'd start off small. This is third in a series, and won't make sense without at least the first one, so click back!

Mycroft Holmes was going to murder his brother.

That was the first coherent thought that had crossed his mind in an astonishingly long five seconds. With every inhale, he could feel blood rushing to his cheeks and ears, and the handle of his umbrella was slowly being crushed under the grip of fingers gone white-cold. Every lime-blossom-scented breath.

The embarrassment might actually kill him.

The spell was finally broken by Miss Hooper shifting in her seat. It was easy for Mycroft to tell that she was tense, and the long silence couldn't have done much to alleviate it. What on Earth did he _say_ , though?

“I,” he managed to get out, and coughed. “Ah.”

The grin that broke across her face was dazzling. “Or we could start with a proper date,” she said, a mix of sympathy and triumph in her voice.

“Miss Hooper,” he finally said.

“Molly,” she corrected firmly.

An involuntary smile escaped onto his face. “Molly,” he agreed. “Would you do me the great honour of accompanying me to dinner this evening?” To the ninth circle of Hell with the Prime Minister's birthday.

“Why, Mr Holmes,” she said.

“Mycroft,” he stated.

“Mycroft,” Molly smiled. “I do believe I am free to dine.”

“Excellent. Seven o'clock?” Mycroft asked, his cheeks finally beginning to cool. (Damn his pale skin.)

“Perfect,” she said, and he beat a dignified, but still somewhat hasty, retreat.

~~~~~

“Tell the Prime Minister what?”

“That I am unable to attend his party this evening and send my regrets,” Mycroft said somewhat stiffly to his PA.

Anthea actually looked up from her Blackberry at that. Much to his surprise, she was smiling. “Ah. Am I making reservations elsewhere?”

“For two, at seven o'cock,” he agreed what he thought was a quelling tone.

For a brief, singing moment, there was utter silence in the car. Slowly, Mycroft began to turn red again.

“Seven o'clock, certainly, sir. Are we stopping by Tesco's first?” Anthea inquired in the most respectful of tones. Her face was completely serious, but her eyes did not match her tone.

Sherlock now had company on Mycroft's “To Kill” list.

**Author's Note:**

> That is not a typo, although I'm sure Mycroft devoutly wishes it was.


End file.
